


Bad Nights Causing Teenage Blues (I'm Your Cherry Bomb)

by softer_softest



Category: Green Day
Genre: 924 gilman street, Boys Kissing, High School AU, M/M, Mutual Attraction, Sort Of, billie's a minx but what's new, billie/mike - Freeform, blue-haired billie, boys making out, cherry bomb by the runaways, green day rpf - Freeform, in short; boys going AT it, teenagers not being able to keep it in their pants, that's it!, they're so drunk, uh, young green day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-21 18:23:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15563754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softer_softest/pseuds/softer_softest
Summary: So, it's true. This midget's about to perform Cherry Bomb by The Runaways, also known as one of the hottest songs to ever exist – in Mike's humble opinion, that is – and Mike's supposed to fucking sit through it like his insides aren't on fire. Not so much from excitement that pretty guy knows one of his favorite songs of all time, but because he'll have to listen to him moan into the mic during his guitar solo. It's really too much to handle.or, mike's sure his head's about to fucking explode, and this blue-haired minx that's just gotten on stage isn't making it any better.





	Bad Nights Causing Teenage Blues (I'm Your Cherry Bomb)

**Author's Note:**

> all these green day pieces are coming from my inability to continue my dead poets society piece that i've been working on since june so. i guess that's a good thing. as always: i do not own green day, i'm not saying any of this happened, and i hope you enjoy this piece, albeit short.

Mike is, how do you say it... Right – fucking pissed out of his mind.

It's good enough that he has admitted it to himself, at least – in the dusty confines of his drunken mind. He's planning on pretending that he's sober enough to walk a straight line the whole night, though he suspects Tré's onto him by now. Maybe because he was the one to practically shove all these beers and vodkas down his throat, while he himself sipped on his own beer, taking his sweet time. He knows that Tré cares about the fact that Mike's just sixteen and he'll need his working liver for many years to come, but he also knows that he's bent and broken all of Tré's nerves one by one tonight.

Why, you ask? Well, it may be the fact that he failed his Biology exam, that his mom confiscated his phone, or that his girlfriend of four months dumped him for a fucking skinhead. He honestly doesn't really remember, thanks to Tré and the beers he'd shoved in his chest before they decided to pay good ol' Gilman a little visit. He figures that he fails exams all the time, so that mustn't have phased him in any way. Which leaves us two options; though Mike can't stay mad at his mom for too long, so, bingo. Girlfriend, it is.

It's not so much the fact that Nat broke up with him (which fucking hurt a lot, admittedly, but that's life and all that, right?), but it's the fact that Nat broke up with him for a _skinhead_ , a fucking jock that has been getting on Mike's nerves for the longest time now. A buff motherfucker who thinks it's funny to torment guys with dyed hair or piercings or anything that could indicate that they're different or smarter than Ray and his group of dickheads. He supposes it doesn't take much of an effort to be smarter than Ray or any of his jerk-off friends, though.

Getting right back to the point; Mike can't count the time he spent talking shit about him to Nat, and now she's out there fucking dating him all of a sudden, which could lead to a lot of things. Correction: it could only lead to one thing, though the ways to get there vary. For example, Nat could tell Ray exactly what Mike's been saying about him, which would end in him getting beat up. Another example, Ray's two-inch brain could be sensing that ex-boyfriends are off limits to Nat, and therefore Mike would get beat up. Maybe Nat could say the word go and Mike would get beat up, for no apparent reason other than the fact that Nat's pretty and Ray thinks with his dick.

He supposes it's good that he got it out of his system, at least, and then he immediately thinks that Tré maybe wasn't the best person to unload his teenage blues on. He doesn't want to repeat himself, though. Maybe him being too drunk to speak or pay attention to the bands who are currently performing up on Gilman is best for everyone.

“You're not _that_ drunk,” Tré huffs in exasperation, eyes glued to the band still on stage. “Stop being dramatic.”

“I'm not being dra...” Mike takes a deep breath as a wave of pressure passes through his temples, leaving as quickly as it came. “Besides,” he continues, forgetting whatever the fuck he was about to say, his arm curling around Tré's shoulders lovingly, “I'm having so much _fun!”_

Tré looks at him for a second, then pats his chest, “I'm sorry, dude. You know they don't allow alcohol in here – you had to drink whatever you wanted to right then.”

Mike hums in understanding, except he isn't really capable of understanding anything right now, and he just wants to make sure Tré knows he's having fun. He is having fun, after all. The music's good and there's a pretty girl lying about somewhere, so if Tré abandons him to go flirt with a hot bassist or whatever he has a Plan B. He's not sure any girl would want to spend her evening with someone as drunk and scrawny as Mike, but hey. That's alright. He can just go get some more beer or whatever.

“Are you even listening?”

“I'm trying to,” Mike groans, pulling his arm away from around Tré's shoulders. He feels desperate all of a sudden, and Tré must sense it because he very audibly braces himself. “Why would she go date Raymond anyway? He's ugly and blond. He looks like he's bald under the sun.”

Tré sighs for the millionth time this night alone and starts biting on a fingernail, “I don't want to upset you, Mikey, but Ray's way more handsome than you. And popular. And he can actually hold a fucking football.”

“Are you implying I can't hold a fucking football?”

“There was no implication,”Tré hisses, because Mike's started yelling without realizing it and they've attracted quite a few stares their way. “I straight up said it. Stop screaming.”

Mike tears his eyes away from Tré and stares straight ahead at the wall, repressing some burps that are tickling his throat. The last thing he wants right now is Tré complaining about him being unsanitary and disgusting, even though he thinks he remembers him farting at least three times since the time they met up outside of his house.

“I think I'm gonna go talk to their drummer,” he hears Tré murmur five minutes or so later after the band has wrapped up their performance and are getting off stage. He faintly remembers saying something about this a few minutes ago, but his head hurts when he tries to think about it for too long, so he just shrugs his shoulders.

“Go, I guess,” he mutters, kind of dreading the minute he's alone. He doesn't want to get enough time to think or start sulking again, the norm for when he's drunk or high, but Tré's like a social butterfly. He supposes it'd be better if he got his daily dose of attention from someone else than him in this particular mood he's in right now.

Tré waits until the drummer's alone before he stands up and walks over. So, Mike's alone, and he almost immediately starts sulking, which is way later than he thought it would happen. His thoughts are filled with fucking Ray and fucking Nat, and even worse, Ray fucking Nat, which is just... _gross_. It's gross. He tries to get it out of his head before all the beers he's drunk start coming back up.

Instead, he waits for the next act to come on stage and start playing while he plays with the callouses on his fingers, formed by his own bass. He's a bit more conscious of his surroundings at this point – no, not sober, definitely not sober, as much as he'd want that to be the case – and he's also painfully aware that Tré looks like he's having a pretty good time where he is, so he supposes he's gonna be standing on his own for a while.

He's about to start counting the veins that are outlined on his hand when something bright catches the corner of his eye. He turns his head quickly, as quickly as he can with how buzzed he is, and his eyes remain glued to the loud pop of electric blue he's faced with.

It's not the first time he's seen someone with dyed hair, but he guesses this is an interesting choice of a color since most people go for blond or white or pink. He hasn't seen many guys with blue hair, and now this one's climbing up the stage, tripping one too many times for Mike to assume he's any less drunk than he is himself.

He's only seen the back of his head so far, and he can't help but admire the pretty blue curls as the guy tries to pick up a guitar and fails multiple times. Eventually, someone helps him get the strap over his head and the guitar balanced appropriately over his stomach, and then he turns around, ready to greet the crowd.

If Mike thought the back of his head was pretty, he was in for quite a big surprise. The front of his head is even prettier, and it hadn't crossed his mind that this could be the case throughout the three minutes it took for the guy to balance himself on his feet. From what he can see – he's standing in the far back, and though the space isn't this big, he'd much prefer being in the front so as to admire this guy's beauty from close up – the dude's quite short, barely surpassing the mic stand, and his hands are small where they're resting on the cherry red, electric guitar in front of his abdomen.

He admires the big, dark eyes and pouty lips, the narrow shoulders, and little nose. He looks like a punk version of a doll, which really shouldn't make Mike gulp as he's standing with his arms crossed over his chest. It's silly. What's also silly is how the first thing the guy asks into the microphone is if he has everyone's attention, as if the attention Mike's so obsessively giving him isn't more than a whole sea of fucking people could. He stares on in shame.

“I suppose everyone's listening to me now,” he slurs, and his voice is so incredibly nasally, that Mike would think he's coming down with a cold or something. Something's telling him this is the natural way this guy talks, though, all high-pitched and nasally and sweet, which is a lot for his drunken mind to process and accept. “My name's Billie Joe and I want to say that girls fucking _suck!”_

Mike blinks, blinks again, and turns to make eye contact with Tré across the room. He's already looking at him, furrowing his eyebrows all confused, and they both turn their attention back on stage once Billie Joe's started talking again.

“Except for the girls in here tonight; I'm sure you're all lovely,” he mutters, like he can't control the volume of his voice. Could there possibly be someone that's even more fucking drunk than Mike is in this place tonight? “But most girls fucking suck and it's making me all sick and sad and I'm so fucking drunk right now,” he rambles, as if everyone in the room hadn't already figured it out. “So, fuck you, Julia! You and your ugly fucking college student!”

The few people in the room all roar with cheers and laughter, raising their fists in the air in order to give the little guy on stage some ethical support. Mike shakes his head in amusement as Billie clears his throat into the mic.

“What I want to say before I finally start-” he burps, “start playing,” he takes a deep breath, and Mike's hanging from every single word that's coming out of his ruby red lips at this point. “If any hot guy in here wants to fuck, you can catch me after I'm done! I'm fucking done with girls right now, dammit!”

The crowd roars once again, and Mike finds himself laughing hysterically as Billie tries to untangle his arm from his guitar strap – God knows how he got it tangled up in there in the first place – without success. This is a fucking goldmine. He resists the urge to put a hand up and yell that he volunteers, for the sake of watching this pretty little midget's performance.

Billie finally gets his arm free with the help of some girl in the audience, and his blue hair is still the center of most of Mike's attention, alongside his mouth, which seems to be permanently red and swollen. It's mesmerizing to watch him talk and move his mouth, especially when he catches sight of two rows of cute, crooked teeth. Where do guys like this come from?

Mike almost doesn't register that Billie's started playing something on the guitar, and only when the crowd starts cheering and whistling does he recognize the opening notes of the song.

You mean to tell Mike that he's going to have to suffer through this blue-haired, big-eyed, plump-mouthed, short, curly-headed motherfucker's cover of Cherry Bomb without running on stage and kissing his cheeks? He feels a little dizzy. He backs up into the nearest wall.

So, it's true. This midget's about to perform Cherry Bomb by The Runaways, also known as one of the hottest songs to ever exist – in Mike's humble opinion, that is – and Mike's supposed to fucking sit through it like his insides aren't on fire. Not so much from excitement that pretty guy knows one of his favorite songs of all time, but because he'll have to listen to him moan into the mic during his guitar solo. It's really too much to handle.

“Can't stay at home, can't stay in school,” the guy starts, always nasally and sexily, his mouth so close to the microphone Mike could scream. His hand is making quick work of the strings. He seems even drunker than before right now – with his eyes all closed and body basically supporting itself against the microphone stand, a few seconds away from humping his guitar. “Old folks say: 'you poor little fool'.”

Mike can't help but hum along, catching Tré jumping to the beat from the corner of his eye. This guy's born to be on stage, it seems, and not just because he's a pretty thing. That's important, too, though, he supposes.

Mike starts bobbing his head up and down as Billie starts getting into the chorus, pausing to look at him from time to time.

“Hello, daddy! Hello, mom!” Billie screams, his head twitching and a look of ecstasy taking over his whole face. “I'm your _ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!_ Hello, world,” he opens his eyes, and Mike is sure that he knows exactly what he's fucking doing at that moment. “I'm your wild girl.”

Mike's insides burn at that. Something about this fucking gremlin-resembling dude moan that he's a wild girl into the microphone is making him all hot and bothered, and this is incredibly new, incredibly untouched territory for him. His whole body's tingling and he has to wipe the sweat off his top lip before it starts dripping down his chin, alongside his fucking drool; and all for this Billie character.

And he continues.

“Stone age love and strange sounds, too,” he croons, a little squeak accidentally escaping him at the end of the line, causing loads of people to start wolf-whistling. Billie seems to be relishing in it, the fucking dickhead. “Come on, baby, let me get to you.”

Mike ducks his head and starts rubbing at his face frantically, trying to get the filthy imagery and dirty guitar licks out of his head for just a second, so he can breathe and forget how thick the air in this room is getting. He zones back in and immediately falls back into a trance.

“Hello, daddy! Hello, mom! I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb! Hello, world, I'm your wild girl! I'm your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!”

To none of Mike's surprise, Billie decides not to change the original flow of the song. What that means is that he moans all throughout his guitar solo, as predicted. Mike doesn't know whether he's thankful or rueful of that fact; what he does know, though, is that Billie Joe deems it appropriate to start humping his guitar the tiniest bit, as well, and his moans keep getting louder and more nasally as he approaches the chorus once again.

Mike adjusts the crotch of his pants.

“I'll give you something to live for,” Billie giggles filthily into the mic, looking like he's about scream _'somebody fuck me'_ on the top of his lungs right then and there. “Have ya, grab ya, 'til you're _sore!”_

He doesn't know if he's even drunker than he was when he first walked in here; but all he can think about is how the only colors running around his mind are red and black, and he's pretty sure he can taste them, too. He can see them on stage, enveloping Billie as he grinds filthily and humps a guitar that's not even his. Everything is red and black, it seems, from the song to the fitted shirt this little stage minx is wearing.

No. Everything's red, black, and electric blue. Electric like the feeling that's been bothering Mike's spine ever since the moment Billie started delivering these dirty notes, electric like the pretty blue of his hair Mike can't get enough of.

“Cherry bomb! Cherry bomb! Cherry bomb! Cherry bomb! Cherry bomb!”

Mike's not sure he's ever heard applause as loud as this round for the past year he's been coming to Gilman on a weekly basis. What he's absolutely certain of, however, is that Billie deserves this and so many more things just for his presence here tonight. He feels that he should be showered with love and attention wherever he goes for whatever he does, and he's pretty sure he wouldn't be opposed to it, either. It's driving him up the wall.

Billie Joe's pouring sweat at this point, there are loud strands of hair sticking to his forehead and sweat stains all over his shirt, which is sticking to his torso. His face hasn't let go of the blissed-out expression he adopted while performing, and he's looking through the crowd carefully, like he's nit-picking, scrutinizing.

Mike almost forgets there are other people screaming in the room.

“Someone...” Billie mutters weakly into the mic, panting softly as his hands grip the stand for dear life. People are still cheering, and he's still fucking drunk off his ass. “Someone come up here and make out with me.”

There's another uproar, louder than ever before, but Mike barely registers any of it. He's painfully aware of how dry his mouth has gotten, or how uncomfortable his pants are all of a sudden, or how Billie Joe's eyes are cruising through the crowd, on the lookout for someone that could potentially meet his fancy.

There are a few guys who raise their hands and shout out to get Billie's attention, though, sadly, no one makes the cut. _The cut;_ Billie's own preferences. When he doesn't like someone, he straight up tells them that they're too ugly, or too short, or too buff, but no one takes offense from a hot little minx like him.

Mike doesn't know what it is. He doesn't know what's so hot about this guy; except his physical features. It's not just that, it's the confidence he has on stage, and it's the fact that he's willing to make out with another guy in front of everyone to see, and it's also that he's being a brat about it. Something like that – plus the fact that Mike's drunk on beer and Billie Joe – makes him raise his hand determinedly.

Billie's eyes never stray from the front of the stage, like he's forgotten there are people further back as well, but Mike doesn't want to move from there, for whatever reason. He's not all that desperate to necessarily make out with Billie himself; he'd be happy watching someone else do it instead of him, just to see the poor little guy melt and writhe.

When he zones back in from his Billie Joe induced trance, he notices that there are two pairs of eyes watching him. The first one he notices is Tré's - who's still on the side of the stage with his drummer, hand loose around a Coke and fixing him with a disbelieving smile. The second pair of eyes, however.

The second pair of eyes happens to belong to the star of Mike's pathetic teenage wet dreams for weeks to come, the same person who delivered a flawless rendition of Cherry Bomb just a few minutes ago. The big eyes seem to be challenging him, but Mike's stuck there, in a trance, with his arm still stretched above his head and his free hand in his pocket.

“Come on, then,” Billie purrs into the microphone. Mike's arm collapses back down on his side almost on instinct as the crowd roars and roars and _roars_ – roars just like his heart, which is suddenly jack-rabbiting faster than ever against his chest.

He's suddenly hyper-aware of the two dudes slapping him on the shoulders as if to say congratulations, or maybe it's meant to encourage him. He hopes he doesn't look about ready to shit his fucking pants, even though he's closer than ever before.

“Don't keep me waiting.”

That springs Mike into action, his feet moving on their own accord as he strides determinedly over to the stage, jumping up way more gracefully than he would if he was sober and aware of what the fuck he was about to do. He took a minute to steady himself on both of his feet once he was there, and when he lifted his head, he saw Billie Joe right there, a meter at most away.

Billie eyes him the whole time Mike tries to register what's happening, and when the god-awful little gremlin makes no move to approach him, Mike takes the few steps necessary to come face to face with him. He has forgotten what he was about to do on this stage, to be frank. He doesn't fucking remember why he was pulled up here, but all he can think about is how Billie's eyes are green and not brown.

“You gonna do this or not?” Billie whispers, in a challenging manner. Mike was never the one to back out from a challenge while drunk.

He reaches out as smoothly as he can, cradling Billie's waist with one hand and the back of his head with the other, and just tips his head forward. He wants to go softly at first, wants to feel the softness of Billie's mouth and the slow response from him. He's forgotten that Billie's an annoying little brat, though.

Billie starts biting at Mike's lips stubbornly until all Mike can seem to do is break the kiss, slide the hand on the back of Billie's head all the way down to his waist, next to the other, and dive back in. This time around, though, it's a lot faster, and a lot more open-mouthed, something that's about shutting Billie up more than enjoying the feel of his plush mouth.

Billie's surprised, to say the least, and all he can do is put one hand on Mike's cheek and his other arm around his neck, resting lazily over the other's shoulder. Mike doesn't know why he finds the laziness of it so damn hot; the thing is, it feels like it's the most casual thing in the world, and Billie's treating it like it is, like he's known Mike for ages and they've done this a million times before.

He'd say it's unfortunate that they're standing right in front of the mic right this moment; which means that it picks up all the wet sounds their mouths are making, and all the little moans that slip from in between Billie's busy lips. He's plastered himself all over Mike, and he's stroking his hair, which helps Mike let out one of his own unintentional little sounds.

There's a moment where Billie breaks the kiss and starts lapping at Mike's bottom lip with his tongue, like a fucking cat, and Mike can see just how dilated his pupils are, just how out of it he is as a whole. It turns him on to the point of no return, and he resumes their public makeout session, this time him being the one to slip a finger in Billie's bright blue curls. He's curious to see if they're spray-painted, if the little minx dyed them just for the show, and he makes a mental note to check his fingers later for any pretty blue paint.

They bump noses, then bump teeth, bump tongues, and soon Mike can feel a bit of fucking saliva in the corner of his mouth. The best thing of it all is that he doesn't know which one's saliva it really is since Billie's taken it upon himself to shove his little tongue as deep as it'll go. He's pretty sure he accidentally bites Billie's lip at some point, and his head gets dizzier when Billie whimpers.

He's suddenly semi-aware of all the cheers around them. The whole fucking crowd's watching them go at it, sucking each other's faces off, and it's a good thing Mike's drunk or else he would've thrown up all over Billie right now. There are the occasional wolf-whistles and encouraging shouts, as well as people screaming at them to get off or play some goddamn music.

Billie's the first one to pull away – of course, he is, the motherfucker – and stares directly into Mike's soul as he wipes his drenched mouth with his wrist. Mike gulps – almost choking on the excess saliva he forgot was in his mouth in the process – and starts taking slow steps backward, until he reaches the edge of the stage and people are pulling him down, slapping his back, some of them even hugging him or kissing his hair.

He hasn't broken eye contact with Billie Joe once, which only happens when said minx bends down to grab the discarded red guitar and says with his nasally, broken, groggy voice, “I wanna play another fucking song.”

Mike really wants to cheer him on and scream for him, because now it feels like his obligation to do so or something equally embarrassing and dumb as that, but Billie's still making eyes at him throughout the whole process of setting up the guitar only to probably hump it silly again.

His second song of choice is Beat On The Brat by the Ramones, and Mike shakes his head as he holds eye contact with him. At least he's self-aware, he supposes.

“Dude!” he hears someone scream, though it's really a distant ringing at this point. He knows who it is.

He doesn't bother breaking eye contact.

 _“Dude!”_ Tré screams louder, punching him in the shoulder. This makes Mike finally stop eye-fucking Billie Joe and turn his attention to his friend, who looks like a mixture of seeing a ghost and winning the lottery. “This was fucking _epic!_ Where did you learn how to do that thing with your tongue, man? That's...” he shakes his head as if to shake off the shock radiating off of him, but it doesn't do much to calm him down. Mike supposes this was the last thing he was planning on or needed to see.

“I still haven't realized it's happened, dude,” Mike confesses, already knowing that Billie's staring at him before he turns his head. “It's like... woo.”

“Fucking woo indeed, man!” Tré hasn't stopped screaming for a second. Mike's about to comment on it, but then Billie fucking decides it's an appropriate time to wink at him, so that goes out the window. Along with Mike's self-control.

“He fucking winked at me,” he mutters, somewhat directed at Tré, somewhat meant to be just for himself. He doesn't even know if he's fucking drunk anymore. No, scratch that; he doesn't know whether his drunkenness is solely due to Billie Joe's whole gig for tonight, or even better, he knows nothing anymore. Just that Nat's a piece of shit compared to this pretty little gremlin.

Tré shakes his head, “I can't believe you got to suck Cherry Bomb's face off while I was stuck over there groping ABBA's ass.”

Mike looks at him slowly, “ABBA's ass?”

“He's a fucking ABBA superfan. Like – how am I supposed to work with that?”

Mike starts giggling, feeling that the tension inside of him from the beginning of the night has finally started to dissolve, after being at its peak a mere few minutes ago, “ABBA are... cool.”

“Shut up, _Cherry Bomber,”_ Tré huffs, pushing his barely touched Coke into Mike's chest. “I need to go make out with someone. You've started a trend.”

Mike laughs as Tré bounces away, checking inside the Coke can and taking a big gulp. He checks the stage when he hears the melodic sound of the guitar come to an end, and there Billie is, untangling himself from the strap and lifting his head to check across the room. Mike raises his Coke at him as if to make a toast when they make eye contact, and Billie doesn't react, just puts the guitar down at the speed of light and jumps off stage. Mike follows him with his eyes, seeing him drunkenly laugh with some unknown faces who slap him on the back and then checking at the side of the stage to see Tré and drummer boy making out. He takes notice of the ABBA shirt that's snug against the guy's body, and can't help but chuckle into his Coke.

His eye's catching something again. He's getting déjà vu, because there's this oh-so-familiar, sweet, electric blue tugging at the corner of his eye, and he can't turn his head quick enough.

“Do you have a pen?” Billie asks sweetly, his eyes hazy, looking completely fucked-out. Mike gets lost in them for just a moment, but he figures he could try and count the golden flecks in them some other time. Hell, he's not even sure there will ever be another time.

“Uh. What?” he says uselessly, secretly relishing in the way Billie huffs in annoyance. There's a moment where the midget starts looking around like he's inspecting the room. He leaves without saying a word, but Mike knows he'll come back, so he doesn't protest. He stares straight ahead, pretending that he didn't see Billie flinging himself on another guy. He laughs to himself.

Sure, enough, Billie's back in a minute or so, and this time he's holding a black pen between his little fingers. Mike looks at the pen, and then at Billie, giving him the best neutral look he can muster while trying not to lose his shit. There are only a few reasons why Billie would want a pen after all that had happened; and Mike sure as hell didn't think he was going to stab him with it, so.

Billie grabs his right arm and grips at his wrist, trying to keep him still as he scribbles down on it. Mike hopes his heart's pounding isn't audible from where Billie's standing. Billie steals some suggestive glances up at him in between scribbling digits and finds Mike looking back at him every single time.

“You're so fucking lucky I'm drunk right now,” Billie murmurs as he finishes off the last digit, holding on to Mike's arm a little longer than necessary as he spoke. “You'd have never gotten this otherwise.”

Mike doesn't really know what to respond to this, so he just nods dumbly, smiling at the sound of Billie's drunk giggles.

“You're gonna fucking call, right?”

Mike grins stupidly, “Fuck _yeah,_ I'm gonna call.”

Billie runs a hand through his cute little worm curls, putting some behind his ear softly, “Cool.”

He's pretty sure Billie's gonna go back to his group or leave or something akin to that, so he says the first thing that comes to mind, which happens to be the only thing that's been into his mind for a while.

“Can I, um. Again?” he sputters, resisting the urge to drive his head straight up to the nearest wall at his fucking awkwardness. He was up there kissing the living daylights out of the dude not that long ago and now he's decided to go back to being a fucking moron, obviously. So much for the effect of cheap beer.

Billie doesn't answer verbally. What that means is that he pulls Mike forwards by the back of his neck and grants his wish, leaving a hot, wet kiss on his mouth, long enough for Mike to be able to react. Mike feels the same tingle run up and down his spine, and Billie Joe's waist feels even more delicate between his hands than it did up there. He's so petite, is the thing, which means that Mike could very easily pick him up and kiss him whenever the hell he wanted. But as petite as he is, he has twice the bite to make up for it, at least while drunk. It's so fucking satisfying to Mike, and he traces over the ink on his arm carefully when Billie pulls away and leaves, grabbing his jacket from a stool and disappearing.

There are a few things that Mike deems absolutely necessary to mention at this point. The first thing is that, by the time he'd made it home in the after hours, he'd memorized the number written on his arm, though that's really not a surprise to him. Or anyone, he thinks. The second thing is that he spent two hours of his life that he will never get back trying to dig up his ancient Runaways CD. No, minor correction; he _did_ get these two hours back. He supposes the two hours he spent listening to Cherry Bomb on repeat makes up for them.

And, last but not least, the third thing is that he spends another fucking hour trying to build up the courage to pick up his damn phone (after he's gotten it back from his mom) and dial the number that's burnt into the back of his eyelids.

He figures that what really matters is that he's got a date on Saturday after all, and he's going to shamelessly spend the entirety of it touching electric blue hair. And making out. _Lots_ of making out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading, i'd love to hear your thoughts on it!


End file.
